Warped
by Ann3
Summary: Apollo ends up in mid 1970's San Francisco - and meets someone rather familiar...


WARPED 

A crossover story for Battlestar Galactica and Streets Of San Francisco

Written by: Ann Rivers  ann.rivers@virgin.net

Summary:   Apollo ends up in 1970's San Francisco. No prizes for guessing who he meets there…

Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective owners, times and dimensions.

                    I'm not making any profit from their use here – as if anyone would pay me for this…  :o)

Feedback:    Yes please ! I've heard it's excellent therapy…

This story is dedicated to a certain Mr Hatch – thank you, Richard, for making my teenage years just that little bit more bearable…

That was the trouble with space. Oh sure, it was pretty enough, with all those shiny stars and planets.

But for a chronically bored time warp, space was just one big, empty, mind numbingly dull place.

A subtle shift in the cosmic rhythm caught its attention – and gave it the chance for a little playtime.

"Galactica, this is Blue Leader… recon patrol clear… I'm on my way home, be there in a centar…

so tell Boxey I'll be home to read him his bedtime story after all…"

_Aha !! The gallant and stoic Captain Apollo_…! the warp thought, setting itself on an intercept course.

_So you think you'll be home in a centar, do you_…? _Think again, flyboy_…!!

Breaking the connection, Apollo sighed – as he often did when he spoke the name Galactica.

Oh, he loved her, of course. How could you not love such an awesome, majestic ship ?

Besides, this was his home – albeit a temporary, often threatened one. His home in the stars.

But it wasn't _home_ home… it wasn't Earth…

"I wonder what Earth is like…" Apollo murmured dreamily, allowing himself a wistful smile.

"I wonder if it has oceans as blue as the ones on Caprica, or if the people are as warm and friendly…"

_Awwwww, so you wanna see what Earth's like, do you, Cap'n_…? the warp thought gleefully, 

setting its backtravel destination and year with even more mischievous pleasure than usual.

_I hear San Francisco's a real nice place to visit_… 

Seconds later, a mischievous time warp with _way_ too much spare time on its hands rippled, 

unseen and unfelt, undetected by any of his sensors, through Apollo's Viper.

Job done, it then zipped merrily onwards, homing in on another unsuspecting victim…

Apollo blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes. When that failed to work, he pinched himself on the cheek.

"Ow…!" he yelped, ruefully massaging said cheek while telling himself _never_ to do that again.

Then he frowned, wondering how else he could prove to himself that he wasn't seeing things.

_Try using the sensors, dummy_… his cynical inner voice suggested in lay-it-on-with-a-trowel sarcasm.

Promising himself a stern chat with his inner voice at some stage, Apollo flipped his sensors –

staring in puzzled surprise at the results which flashed up on his screen.

No, he wasn't going crazy. Having some discipline problems with his inner voice, maybe, but no…

Captain Apollo, brave and unflappable, fearless leader of Blue Squadron, was _not_ going crazy.

He wasn't imagining things either. It was still there, right in front of him. 

A shining blue and green marbled planet, which he knew instinctively was called…

"Earth…!!" Apollo breathed, grinning from ear to ear as he let out a most un-captain like yell. 

"_Yahooooo_ !!! I've found it…! I've found it…!"

Promising himself a discreet check up with Salik when he got back, Apollo clicked on his radio. – 

his moment of glory somewhat rained on by the mocking hiss of static.

"Oh, frack…!" he muttered, giving the offending console a frustrated whack with his hand.

Deciding that whacking metal consoles with your hand was about as sensible as pinching your cheek, 

he popped stinging fingers into his mouth while trying to decide what to do next.

A plaintive rumble from his stomach, loud enough to make him jump, made the decision for him.

Setting the Viper on a landing course for a prettily named city called San Francisco, Apollo frowned.

He could see views of it on his sensors now. San Francisco – as beautiful as its name suggested.

Hilly place, though – criss crossed by hundreds of… now, what was the term he'd once heard…?

Aah, yes… streets…

San Francisco… streets… now why did that sound so familiar…?

Settling on an empty bench in Golden Gate Park, Dan Robbins studied his lunch in happy anticipation.

His partner, Mike Stone, teased him mercilessly over it, but there was a lot to be said for health food.

It kept you fit.

It gave you loads of energy.

It helped you stay slim. 

It gave your hair a lovely glossy sheen.

It also made you see grey spaceships fly over your head and land less than fifty feet away from you.

Which, when Dan thought carefully enough about it, might – just _might_ – be seen as a downside…

Dan blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes. When that failed to work, he pinched himself on the cheek.

"Ow…!" he yelped, wondering what on earth had just possessed him to do such a stupid thing.

Casting a suspicious glare at his allegedly healthy lunch, Dan then tossed it into a nearby trashbin.

"That does it…" he muttered, squaring his shoulders before setting boldly off to investigate.

"To hell with health food… from now on, it's pizza, burgers and hot dogs…"

Within a few seconds of his arrival, one of Galactica's finest was causing quite a stir.

Golden Gate Park suddenly became _the_ place to be – which was good news for them, of course.

Bad news, though, for San Francisco's other attractions, who all suffered a mass exodus of visitors.

Watching the rapidly growing crowd watching him, watching them, watching him, Apollo frowned.

He'd already been mobbed once in his life, and he really didn't feel like a repeat performance.

Besides, he'd just gotten his flight jacket laundered, and it would be an awful shame to get it dirty.

Eventually his eyes came to rest on a tall, dark haired figure who, it seemed, appeared to be in charge.

Well, he was giving orders to several men in uniform, so this was clearly the person to head for.

Opening the canopy, Apollo clambered out onto the Viper's fuselage and climbed down its footholds – 

idly wondering why his actions provoked a loud chorus of female voiced cheers and two tone whistles.

Assuming this was a traditional greeting, Apollo was all ready to cheer and whistle in return – 

then thought this was hardly the most dignified way to make his first contact with the thirteenth tribe.

Besides, he was hopeless at whistling. A dab hand at blasting Cylons, sure, but hopeless at whistling.

So instead he turned away to make first contact with humanity with his widest, friendliest smile – 

only to find the first line of that humanity kneeling on the ground, pointing some very big guns at him.

"Oh, frack…!" he muttered, worriedly surveying a line of suspicious, unsmiling faces.

This wasn't exactly the reception committee from the thirteenth tribe that he'd been expecting.

Getting his uniform dirty was bad enough, but blood too…? No, he didn't like the idea of that at all.

The launderers on the Galactica would have his hide for that – assuming there was anything left of it.

Ruefully shelving the big speech he'd prepared for this landmark moment, Apollo took a deep breath.

_Okay, Apollo_… he thought. _Keep your_ _cool here_… j_ust keep it nice and short and dignified_…

"Um, hi…?" 

_Oh, way to go, Captain_… his ever helpful inner voice chimed in. "_Um_, _hi_…"… _yeah, **real** dignified_…

Gearing up to give his inner voice a _really_ stern talking to, Apollo then frowned in puzzlement.

Said inner voice was still sarcastically mocking him – so who did that other voice belong to…?

The voice which had uncannily shouted the same words he'd been frantically thinking…?

"Wait…! Don't shoot…! He's human…! Hold your fire…!"

Finally realising it had been another voice that had spoken, Apollo looked up – and stared in shock.

Eyes as startlingly green as his looked curiously back at him, out of a face identical to his own.

The hair was rather shorter (and glossier, he thought in silent envy…), but… frack, it was _him_…!

The dark haired figure he'd seen earlier was his exact double, right down to the ladykiller smile…

"Y – Y – You're me…!" Apollo finally stammered, silently telling his inner voice to shut the frack up. 

"I – I mean, I'm you, only… well, kinda older, and… and… you're – you're me, and… and…"

"I'm you…? Oh, I don't think so…" the lookalike argued, turning critical eyes towards Apollo's head.

"For one thing, there's no way I'd let _my_ hair get _that_ long… not to mention untidy…!"

Self consciously finger combing his fringe back into place, Apollo opened his mouth to reply – 

then just as self consciously closed it again as he realised he hadn't yet thought of anything to say.

Even if he could say anything, Apollo seriously doubted whether he'd make much sense.

Fortunately his double took care of that, wiping his fingers on a napkin before extending a hand.

"Dan Robbins… how ya doing…?"

As Apollo continued to gape at him, Dan then smiled slightly, leaning in to confidentially whisper,

"Hey, guess you overshot the White House lawn, huh…?"

"The White where what…?" Apollo stuttered after him, now totally and thoroughly confused.

He was starting to get a headache – no doubt from the weight of all that hair pressing down in it.

Keeping that thought wisely to himself, he took a deep breath then, as calmly as he could, tried again.

"So… I – I mean… um…"

"Dan…" Dan supplied with a helpful smile, enjoying another bite of an especially ketchupy hot dog.

"Dan…" Apollo nodded distractedly, still trying to get to grips with this utterly surreal experience.

This first encounter with Earth, he now ruefully reflected, wasn't quite turning out as he'd planned. 

Oh, this Dan Robbins was friendly enough – he'd certainly come in handy with controlling that mob.

Yet Apollo was getting the distinct impression that he wasn't being taken completely seriously.

"Hey, this is some prototype…!" Dan went on, running a hand along the Viper's fuselage.

Sheepishly wiping off a long smear of ketchup, he then turned back to the puzzled Apollo and smiled.

"Ooops… sorry about that… so where are you based… um…?"

"What…? Oh, yes… Apollo, Captain Apollo of the…"

"Captain, huh…? Guess you kinda outrank me then, I only made sergeant…" Dan interrupted, 

not giving Apollo the chance to reply as he flicked an amused, curious glance over Apollo's uniform.

"Hey, nice threads…! Guess the military's cutting back on everything now, even clothing budgets…

I mean, my pants were never _that_ tight when I was in the army…!"

Glancing downwards, Apollo had to admit that his earthly doppelganger had a point.

It certainly explained why his voice always raised a few octaves after an especially long patrol – 

and why, even on emergency scramble, he and his squadron climbed into their Vipers _very_ carefully.

Before Apollo could reply, though, or do anything to stop it, Dan's curiosity got the better of him.

"Hey, mind if I look around…?" he asked, already climbing up the footholds towards the cockpit – 

prompting another chorus of wolf whistles, cheers, and several fainting spells in the female masses.

Suddenly wishing his pants were a lot looser, Apollo climbed, _very_ carefully, up to join him.

He'd no idea what the approving yells of 'cute buns' meant, but he could make a fairly accurate guess.

Thank God he wasn't wearing his Triad gear, otherwise he'd have sparked off a riot.

Right now, though, his main concern was that this overly curious human didn't cause any…

"Hey, what does this button do…?" Dan asked, reaching towards an especially tempting switch.

"Holy frack, no…! That's the…!"

*ZAP*

…damage.

Too late.

Apollo stared at Dan. 

Dan stared at Apollo. 

Then both turned to stare at the chaos they'd caused.

It had been growing, happily unthreatened and undisturbed, for the last two thousand years.

Now Golden Gate Park's oldest redwood had been reduced to the world's largest pile of firewood.

"Oh, frack…!" Apollo said at last, letting his head drop into his hands as terrible realisation dawned.

Blowing Cylons to smithereens was fine, but zapping a defenceless tree…? Definite no-no.

"My father's gonna have me thrown in with Baltar for this…!"

"Hey, you think _you've_ got problems…?!?" Dan shot back, faced with his own daunting challenge. 

"I've got to try and explain all this to my lieutenant…!"

"Yeah, but you don't know my father…!" Apollo groaned, carefully climbing down to the ground.

"You don't know my lieutenant…" Dan muttered in equal dread, jumping down beside him.

"So what now…?" Apollo asked, rather sorry that his own lieutenant wasn't there to face the flak.

This just wasn't fair, he thought peevishly. Usually it was Starbuck who got into messes like this.

Even if he didn't, Apollo could always use the privilege of rank to convince everyone otherwise.

"Simple…" Dan replied, grabbing Apollo's sleeve while nervously eyeing the approaching crowds.

Many of them were carrying the remains of said tree – and none of them looked especially friendly.

"As of right now, we _both_ go AWOL… now, _run_…!!!!"

**********************************************************************************

"Richard…??!!? _Richard_…! Hey, c'mon, buddy, wake up…! They're ready for us on set…!"

Coming too with one almighty start, Richard Hatch stared up into the amused face of his trailer-mate.

"Dirk…?!!?" he finally mumbled, still half way between reality and the mayhem of his dreams.

"I was the last time I looked…" Dirk Benedict chuckled, unable to resist teasing his addled friend.

"Can't swear to it, though… I mean, you _have_ been calling me Dan for the last two minutes…"

Thoroughly enjoying the acute embarrassment on his co-star's face, he then added innocently,

"So how was your return trip to San Francisco…? It sure _sounded_ interesting…"

"Don't ask…" Richard groaned, not daring to give Dirk any more ammunition than he had already. 

Double taking that reverse flying Viper had been bad enough, but if word leaked out about this.

If word got round that he, Richard Hatch, had gotten spaced out on his beloved carrot juice – 

well, it would leave Anne Lockhart's wedgie standing in the embarrassment stakes.

That swine Benedict knew it too – a broad grin spreading across his face as he tutted in disapproval.

"Hey, buddy, I keep telling ya…you gotta cut down on this stuff, it just ain't good for you…!"

"But it's a health food drink…!" Richard protested, nodding towards a tellingly bulging pocket.

"Besides, you've been drinking it too…!"

"Hey, how did you know that…?" Dirk protested, all wounded Starbuck-ish innocence.

Rolling his eyes, Richard stood up and, shaking his head, casually reached into his friend's jacket.

"I think the evidence speaks for itself…" he sighed, drawing out a shanghai'd, half emptied bottle.

Slipping effortlessly back into the shoes of Inspector Dan Robbins, he then grinned and added sweetly,

"Care to explain…? Or do I need to cuff you and read you your rights…?!!??"

As Dirk remained conveniently – not to mention sulkily – silent, Richard sighed and gave up.

Some attempts to get your own back, he thought peevishly, were more trouble than they were worth.

Once sure that his friend wasn't looking, and with the most peculiar feeling of déjà vu,

he then surreptitiously opened his fridge and dumped the remaining bottles into his trashbin.

From now on, Richard now fervently decided, I'm sticking to water.

Exiting their trailer, Dirk thought for a moment, then turned to his friend, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Hey, Richard…?"

"Yes, Dirk…?"

Another pause, followed by another puzzled question.

"You ever heard of a screwball outfit called the A Team…?!?!?"


End file.
